


a different chain

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Established Relationship, Handcuffs, M/M, Post-Seine, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: “At first I had thought you intended me to wear them.” Valjean’s expression is thoughtful as he says it, but there’s a hint of darkness behind his eyes.Javert forces a laugh. “Did you not believe me when I told you I never intended to put you in chains again?”“This is rather a different scenario than what I believe you had in mind,” Valjean says reasonably. Still, his hands are gentle.





	a different chain

**Author's Note:**

> Victor Hugo was born 217 slutty, slutty years ago, and in honor of that I decided to finally cave in and write some slutty, slultty fic. Not the classiest debut into the Les Mis fandom I had imagined, but eh, it's on brand.

“You are certain?” 

The object in Valjean’s hands—Javert cannot quite bring himself to look at it, just yet—clinks as he shifts his weight. The fire burns high, as they have learned to keep it in the months since they have begun sharing a room and spending more time with less clothes as a result. Despite the heat, despite the shirt and trousers he still wears, a shiver travels up the ramrod line of Javert’s back. 

Valjean, who misses nothing, wears an expression of concern. 

“We do not have to—”

“Damn it, Jean—yes. Yes, I am certain.” Javert smooths a palm over the hair pulled back from his brow, frowning. It’s the use of the man’s first name, rather than the blasphemy, which seems to hit its mark. The hesitancy on Valjean’s face is blinked away. Another clink sounds in the quiet room as he takes a step closer.

“Very well,” he says, and at the light touch of fingers at his wrist Javert feels the shiver travel through his entire body. “Lie down on the bed, please.” 

Javert has ever exceeded at following orders. Valjean follows him to the bed, watches as Javert stiffly settles himself in the center of their modest bed and makes to lie back. “Your clothes,” Valjean says, still soft, always soft; and yet there is absolutely nothing in that gentle voice that Javert could dream of denying. 

He sits up. Perhaps he ought to give Valjean a show, expose each new scrap of skin with torturous care; but Javert cannot be certain his hands are not shaking, and has no desire to reveal that possibility. He tugs his shirt over his head and kicks off his pants, and lets both fall to the floor beside the bed—in normal circumstances he would make Valjean wait for him to fold them, but not tonight. 

Only then, with Javert's body stripped utterly bare upon the bedspread, does Valjean step forward—at which point his hands and what they hold become impossible to ignore. Valjean raises the manacles, letting the short length of chain move through his fingers. They are ugly things, dark metal built for utility alone. 

Javert closes his eyes for a moment as Valjean eases onto the bed, one knee by his hip and then the other slung over it, until his weight is settled atop Javert’s thighs. He is already turgid, his flesh swelling under Valjean’s gaze, the scrape of Valjean’s trousers against the bare skin of his legs. The length of chain clicks like an intricate mechanism, but of course its function is simplicity itself.

Javert had discovered the handcuffs at the bottom of the chest of those possessions Valjean had stripped from his soaked, fever-stricken body after his plunge into the Seine; a collection of artifacts it took Javert some months after his recovery to face. His uniform he had left folded and unworn; his cudgel had been lost to the river; the handcuffs he had raised to the light, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach and a stranger idea taking root in his mind. 

That had been months ago even yet. He was not a man to act frivolously on impulses. Only when he was certain, had he asked. 

“At first I had thought you intended me to wear them.” Valjean’s expression is thoughtful as he says it, but there’s a hint of darkness behind his eyes. 

Javert forces a laugh. “Did you not believe me when I told you I never intended to put you in chains again?”

“This is rather a different scenario than what I believe you had in mind,” Valjean says reasonably. Still, his hands as they take Javert’s left hand are gentle. Their fingers interlace; Valjean pulls it up to his mouth, kisses the knuckles one by one. Javert’s breath comes fast in his chest, all too aware of the empty handcuff in Valjean’s other hand. 

“Do it, please.” Javert looks away, licking his lips. ‘Before I think the better of indulging this.”

Valjean’s mouth lingers at the tendons of Javert’s hand; his lashes dip. “Very well.” 

A moment later the cool circle of metal closes around Javert’s wrist. Gently, carefully, and yet with a click that certainly means it is locked. It is tight. Javert flexes his wrist, his throat unaccountably dry. 

“Your other hand, now,” Valjean says. Javert lets him guide the shackled hand up to the metal bed frame, looping the chain past one of the rungs before pausing, the manacle inches from Javert’s remaining wrist. He could still pull free. He could still tell Valjean to stop. 

He meets Valjean’s eyes one last time.

“Do not make me beg you for this,” Javert says, the words slipping out through gritted teeth before he can think the better of them; and Valjean squeezes the cuff around his wrist, shackling him fast. 

Javert is fully hard now, as quick and effortless as a man half his age. A fact which Valjean immediately notes, upon leaning back from the headboard. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of Javert’s stiffened flesh. Javert turns his head against the pillow, his face heating with shame; and yet there is nothing he can do to cover himself, no chance of turning away. He is laid utterly bare before Valjean’s eye. No collar to hide the flush creeping up his neck, no coat to mask the gooseflesh creeping down his arms. No hat to pull low and shield the treacherous look in his eyes. 

It is wrong, feeling the manacles fasten around his wrists—it should feel wrong. And yet always it has been him in control, always him with the key. No longer. 

For a while Valjean just stares, gaze tracking through the dark hair on Javert’s chest, the wild thatch between his legs. Javert has never given particular thought to his body’s appearance, beyond a vague understanding that it is unlovely. Neither is he accustomed, in the long months of this coupling that has felt in many ways like a life which does not belong to him and which he does not deserve, to Valjean’s eyes lingering so appreciatively on his form. 

“You should test them.” Valjean’s voice is surprisingly rough. Though the other man is still infuriatingly clothed, Javert can see that he is not wholly unaffected. Gripping the chains in his hands, Javert complies; he pulls at his bonds, feels how firmly he is chained. His heart beats faster in his chest.

“You know better than any that you needn’t be gentle with them.” Javert has no warning before Valjean leans over him again, one hand braced on the pillow by his head, and the other gathering both sides of the chain and tugging hard. Metal clangs against metal; the bed fame jumps under Valjean’s strength, impossibly loud, and Javert can do nothing to quiet it, and there is no one who will hear. He is aware of how fully is he caught, aware also of Valjean’s strength, utterly at in his power—and yet there is no safer place to be. Javert’s mouth is dry, open and panting. 

“You are well?” 

The question should be insulting; Javert is not well, he is in agony, he is leaking onto his own stomach, he is unable to breathe. But he nods, tightly, unable to do anything more; Valjean’s fingers trail down the chains, to his wrists, down his arms. His shoulders, his chest. When his fingers trail through the dampness on Javert’s stomach it becomes impossible not to groan. His legs are trembling, held beneath Valjean’s weight so fastly that when Valjean’s hand finally wraps around his cock and Javert’s body bucks into the touch, he barely moves at all. 

“I admit, I do not understand this.” Valjean is still talking, his hand moving so light and slow up and down Javert’s length. ”But it pleases me, to see you like this.” His voice is low and breathless; his eyes move between the work of his hand to Javert’s eyes, his open mouth. Javert’s teeth worry his lip, savagely trapping what noises he can; but some escape him nonetheless, bitten-off grunts as Valjean’s rough fingers squeeze the head of his cock. It is maddening, it is untenable, it will not be enough, not even if this continues for hours; Javert’s hands reach for himself, reach for Valjean, but are brought up short with a metallic clang. He cannot move, cannot get what he needs; can only lie here in Valjean’s power and accept what he is given. 

“You can—oh.” Javert squeezes his eyes shut, forces a breath out through his nose to master himself. “You can be quite devious, when you set your mind to the task.” 

Valjeans laugh is soft. “You never will forgive me for that hollowed-out coin.” 

“I see now I had the right of it.” Javert’s breath hitches. “Jean Valjean the saint is a lie. You are— _ mh _ —a singularly wicked man.”

“I am as capable of sin as any,” Valjean says, as placidly as if he doesn’t have his fist wrapped around Javert’s member, as if Javert isn’t squirming and gasping beneath him with an abandon he rarely can permit himself. Valjean’s lips are damp; his eyes darker than Javert has ever seen. 

“It pleased me to hear you say my name.” 

Javert’s entire body trembles. There is a heat building in his loins, simmering low in his stomach. “Valjean,” he says, and the hand around him loosens ever so slightly. That it might slow, that it might stop, that it might give him a modicum less of pleasure than what he needs, is unthinkable. 

“ _ Jean _ ,” Javert groans, the word torn out of his throat, his back arching helplessly between the weight that pins him down, the shackles that hold him fast. “Jean,  _ please— _ ”

"I have you," Valjean breathes; and likely it is meant as a comfort, but the words shoot through him like an arrow. Valjean has him; Javert is his. 

It is to this knowledge, purer and more powerful than thought, that Javert feels the force of his pleasure surge through him at last, a hoarse cry dredged up from his lungs as he spills over Valjean’s fist, handcuffs biting into his wrists, the crack of metal on metal like a gunshot so near his ears. 

When he returns to himself his eyes refocus on Valjean’s face, a look of beatific astonishment on his features. His other hand rises to stroke Javert’s cheek, skirting the edge of his whiskers. He can feel the sweat on his face. No longer does Javert want to turn away. He lies beneath Valjean’s wondering gaze, bared and unashamed, until he has the breath to speak.

“Find the keys,” he says, in a voice made ragged from its recent activities. “I want to touch you.” 

A frown darkens Valjean’s face. “...Keys?”

For a moment Javert stares at him, horror and disbelief jostling for priority. “You—”

Whatever he was about to say, the tell-tale crinkle around Valjean’s eyes gives him away moments before his broadening grin does. 

“That isn’t funny, Valjean,” Javert growls as Valjean clambers off him, reaching for the bedside table drawer—and yet he finds it difficult to summon his characteristic venom with the sound of Valjean’s chuckles ringing in his ears. To preserve what little of his image remains, he does manage to bite back the smile on his lips by the time Valjean returns to free him.

His wrists are chafed raw for days to come. At breakfast, Valjean raises them to his lips and kisses the faint indentations with a reverence Javert knows he will never deserve.

He will learn to accept it, nonetheless. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading folks, and PLEASE do yourselves favor and check out the [amazing drawing](https://i.imgur.com/txDtAA1.png) the lovely and talented [Vincent](http://nuizlaziart.tumblr.com) did for this fic - it is, as you might expect, nsfw.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Those Who Follow the Path of the Righteous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078626) by [Margo_Kim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim)




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